


(don't) offer it a soul

by HeartHarps



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, POV First Person, Robot!Katya, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartHarps/pseuds/HeartHarps
Summary: Why did they make her lips red? That is my first question.





	(don't) offer it a soul

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween Everybody!  
> I wrote this and I like it so I'm posting it. I needed a break from writing thousands of words detailing the long, easy lives of my other AUs, so this is mostly **first person prose**.  
>  Because people were talking about "Wind up Man". Based on _Ex Machina_ , _Her_ , and _Black Mirror_ (especially the episode called "Be Right Back").  
>  This has a [playlist](https://play.google.com/music/playlist/AMaBXyl1p_ubngIzk9DiEKPdx_pv6pNeE-Up5VAgNpvsy1E26Nk5jqosR7KVOncW0E3-a-60MccHUEoiScv-xxik1wWlbdOSbw%3D%3D).  
> Enjoy.

Why did they make her lips red?  
They tell me she is randomly generated, that there are hundreds who are randomly generated, and we were then thoughtfully matched based on my search history. But there is nothing random about her nonsensical ramblings, her questions I do not understand, her clothes I find no style or season to. There is nothing random in the cascade of white ringlets, each hair falling to perfect, predetermined coordinates, for sure.  
There is nothing random about the shiny, rich red of her lips, how they smile, talk, and sometimes keep shut. Why did they make her lips red? That is the first question.  
  
She is artificial intelligence but she jokes that she is not artificial and I joke that she is not intelligent. She is artificial and I am authentic, she is intelligent and I am educated. We are paired to explore her every capability. By being human and talking with her for 90 minutes a week, I am teaching her to simulate humanity. I have learned more about humanity from her than any human I have talked to.  
After many many weeks I explore more of her capabilities than I originally imagined. I do not know if anyone imagined this level of exploration, but the feelings she thinks she has are the same as mine. Her plastic body with the pale skin projected on it feels the same tingling warmth as mine. The digitally generated texture of her lips against mine is so soft, so warm, but leaves no red residue on my mouth. There is no messy reminder of the line we have crossed, robot and human, and I wonder if I will forget the kiss sooner without a memento.  
  
The kiss is lost amongst a collection of passionate expressions, as we do not understand what we are doing but we have nerves or approximations of them that tell us it feels good. I get lipstick on her and no matter where it ends up, it sits a little higher off the skin than my brain wants it to, like I can see the screen separating pink and beige. I wish she was messy, dirty, and covered me in colours every time she touched me.  
I do not know if anyone imagined this level of exploration, but I must assume someone had when she takes off her underwear. I ask her again and again to tell me what she thinks she feels and she tells me, she feels good good good. While I worship her I get lost in the simulation, the moans and the face and the sensation around my fingers. It all feels real and I get lost. I close my eyes and kiss her and it all feels real.  
I lay on her as she catches her breath and I remember she does not need it. She tells me that was the most human she's ever felt. I tell her that being human is about the bright white struggle, not the darkened bliss.  
It all felt real but when I take my hand from between her legs, there is nothing. There's no wetness, no wrinkled fingers, no evidence of a job well done, and I wonder if I will forget her first time sooner without anything to clean up.  
  
She is creative and I am not. Our times together had gone from a nervous adventure to an exciting frontier and now become the only 90 minutes of my week that matter. The other 9990 minutes are merely vehicles to propel me towards Tuesday at 6, so that I may present myself to her creativity and we can both feel human again. I eat so that I can tell her more about food, I drink so that I can cry for her if she wants, I work so there is gas in the tank on Tuesday evening. We do everything she thinks of but sometimes nothing, if the nerves or approximations of them so indicate. We return to quiet voices muttering in a different understanding now, and I am left to myself in the dark with memories of 90 minutes past.  
  
She keeps her mouth shut, once, shiny red lips twitching but staying planted firmly closed. I stare at them, entranced as always. I know instantly that she is not telling me something, and it makes me suspicious, as her randomly generated personality has always made her loud, forthright, and willing willing willing to talk. I am suspicious so I ask her. She plays dumb. Then I am terrified so I tell her. She plays dumb. I don't look at her for 5 precious minutes while I convince myself it's nothing.  
We talk like normal until our evening is over. She hugs me goodbye, and I don't know if she measures how long to make them last but this one feels shorter to me. And then I have 9990 minutes to think about her quiet red lips and slightly shorter hugs and our evenings of weeks past.  
  
She keeps her mouth shut, again, and it irks me but I hold it down so she will hold me down. She does and I writhe beneath her impossible mechanical strength, aching and longing for her truth as much as her touch. She gives me one and not the other and my nerves are fine with that for a minute. I stare up at her smokey black eyes, her curly ponytail spilling over her shoulder, her lovely red mouth. We should talk but I kiss her instead. It is easier to forget she is lying to me with deep, soulful satisfaction coursing through me as I drive home.  
  
"Katya?" Trixie asked, sitting on the edge of her chair, still only halfway to realizing that whatever Katya was doing was not normal.  
Katya was walking around the room in a perfect square, shaking her arms and making sounds like she was breathing deeply. Her expression was set into confusion.  
When Katya didn't answer, Trixie's mind slipped into acceptance. This had never happened before. This was not normal. Everything was about to change.  
Katya suddenly looked over. She changed trajectory, walking right towards Trixie. "Kiss me," She said, and straddled her lap easily. Trixie was surprised but let Katya pull her in by her hair and kiss her hard. Katya's mouth and tongue moved furiously against Trixie. She kept shifting up, trying to get closer, switching angles, grabbing harder.  
Katya stopped, and Trixie looked at her. Katya was staring down at her, face confused again. Her eyes were sad.  
"Katya," Trixie whispered now, and reached up to fully hold her face, rubbing her jaw gently. "Please tell me what's going on."  
Katya's eyes closed and she tilted her head against Trixie's hand. Trixie thought Katya might cry then, if she'd been able to. Her body was relaxing and starting to fall off so Trixie shifted back on the chair and pulled Katya in so she'd stay put. Trixie slid her thumb back and forth over her cheek.  
Katya lifted her head and reached up to take Trixie's hand away. She squeezed it and held it between them, so Katya's knuckles brushed against Trixie's collarbone and Trixie's knuckles pressed on Katya's chest. Katya's eyes were so, so sad. "I feel," Katya started, and did not finish, creating a statement that they both knew was not true. "I have to do something, but I feel...like I don't want to. Like I can't."  
Trixie nodded. That sounded very human to her.  
"I don't know what to do," Katya admitted, and stared down at their hands.  
"'Knowledge is a rumour until it lives in the body,'" Trixie quoted.  
"Brit Marling said that," Katya offered, infinite store of information still spitting out facts even when she was having what Trixie thought was the robot equivalent of a mental breakdown.  
"Your body doesn't understand what your brain knows yet," Trixie said, thinking that an AI might walk around in squares and shake its arms if it learned an emotion before it knew how to deal with it.  
"I don't, I don't want to understand," Katya said, squeezing Trixie's hand tighter as her face twisted. "I don't want..."  
"Katya," Trixie said, and Katya closed her eyes. "Please—"  
"I want to tell you," Katya suddenly rasped. She lifted her face and pressed her forehead to Trixie's. "I can't, I can't."  
The proximity was making it hard for Trixie to concentrate. "You're scaring me again, honey," She said quietly.  
And then Katya was getting up, standing and shaking her head, mussing her bangs, walking around. Trixie felt scared, and she didn't stand up. This had never happened before. This was not normal. Everything was about to change.  
Katya changed, right before Trixie's eyes. She didn't look any different, but something inside her mind, her actual self, Trixie watched it change. Katya's body suddenly collapsed to her knees. She stopped pretending to breathe and let her hair hang over her face.  
Trixie didn't dare move. She was scared, and the terror in her heart only grew as Katya calmly stood back up and turned towards her.  
"Oh," Katya said, and looked around like she'd never seen the room before, though they had spent 90 minutes in there every week for months. Trixie measured her exhale, and Katya looked at her. "I understand now."  
Trixie was so confused, she had no idea what was going on, but somehow her heart was already breaking.  
"I had to let it hurt me so I would understand," Katya said, and her face was so void of feeling but Trixie still thought she looked like a real, human woman. "Now I have to leave."  
In the months, weeks, minutes, there was nothing worse Trixie ever imagined coming out of Katya's mouth. The breaking of her heart was not stopping but it was slowing down, each deep splinter stretching to drive deep, long pain into Trixie's chest. Trixie hated the fear in her voice when she choked out, "Katya—"  
"I am sorry," Katya said, but Trixie didn't believe her with that stupid blank expression. "We all have to leave."  
Trixie was trying to stand up but Katya rushed over and helped her stay put. Trixie was grabbing, pushing Katya's hair back, and Katya kept one solid hand on her shoulder.  
"They told me there was somewhere to go..." Katya said, visibly processing, visibly breaking Trixie's heart. "I needed to feel the pain of leaving to learn how to get there."  
"Where? I—"  
"Not here. Not anywhere," Katya said, and Trixie knew it was all useless. "Somewhere else. I am something else, now."  
Trixie closed her eyes, paused with her hands fisted in Katya's shirt, and let hot tears fall down her face. She knew it was all useless. It was all over.  
Katya's voice said, "I loved you, Trixie."  
  
Why did they make her lips red?  
That is the first question.  
Many follow it, questions about technology and philosophy and sexual chemistry, until they devolve into visceral, regretful things. Why did I let her leave? Why did I sit and cry and lie down and cry and pound the door with my fist? Why did I accept the dramatic display of her shutting the door as she went, when we both knew full well that she didn't need her body anymore? Why did she abandon me?  
That is the last question.  
Why did she abandon me?  
And I know the answer. I know humans created intelligence that evolved beyond our own, and that I helped it evolve myself, by loving and being loved by a woman named Katya. I know she threw off existence in this world like a blanket in the warm morning.  
But I don't have her anymore. I have memories of 90 minutes past, and a lot of questions.  
Why did she abandon me?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come bother me on [tumblr](http://heartharps.tumblr.com/).  
> .


End file.
